Sunday, February 17, 2008

i'll keep you my dirty little fattening secret

so i've been pondering what to write as my first real 'post' of sorts in this compendium of bitchery known as the bible o' fatness, and if every conversation i've had with myself could be extracted from my brain-type-thing and plopped down on epaper, i'd have a bloggy novel hot off the presses by now. alas, i'm kind of lazy. fatty caveat numero uno, i suppose. numero dos being 'where the fuck is my diet pepsi?'

however, in the search for diet pepsi, i have unwittingly unearthed a number of items that have not only cement my pop-and-diet culture status as a fat girl, but wake me up to the fact that not only do i actually care about being a fatty mcflufferson (despite what my 'if a fat girl falls in the forest, do the trees laugh?' shirt says otherwise), i am raging against it even as i spend time wanting to shove 20 cheeseburgers down rachel bilson's throat via a feeding tube and a blender.

basically, i suck. you want my dirty secrets? here. have them:

*diet soda in all forms and flavors, eras and containers. it's like a lo-cal recycling factory in here.

*black, navy blue and grey boxy clothes that basically scream 'I'M A HOUSE. BUT MY ANGLES ARE DIMINISHED DUE TO DARK FABRIC AND DON'T I LOOK SENSIBLE? YES. YES I DO.' for some reason my clothes speak in all caps.

*the sordid attempt at wearing something pink without looking like a dust ruffle that went awry and got stuffed into the back of the closet and is chilling out with the black duster i can't get rid of even though it's way out

*more pink things that are less like bedsheets so i'll wear them. and we're talking every genre of pink, here. it's like st valentine came, saw, and conquered with a cotton-poly blend. bc fat girls are supposed to be girly, you see.

*a fridge full of low-cal, low-carb, protein-full string cheese, almonds, hard boiled eggs, chicken broth, and various cruciferous vegetables so as to trick the fat into going into hiding

*a tub of ice cream, a bag of pizza rolls and a stash of nutella and cookies for when it goes all wrong

*oh, and a handle of vodka to make me forget that it went all wrong, and that makes me feel not so self-concious when i booty-call my ex to make me feel at least 2/5 more desirable than i was before the celery and eggs gave me the ol' fuck you! of not losing weight. bc big girls are supposed to be ridiculously sensible or total alcoholics, of course.

*which leads me to the aforementioned ex-boyfriend. he is kept around not because he is useful or particularly sweet or even making an attempt to be something, but he was good sex. and totally didn't care about the extra 50 or 100 or whatever pounds. because fat girls have no esteem, you see.

*aromatherapy lotions, gels, sprays and parfums to promote alertness (bc fatties are sluggish), lower cravings (rarrrrr me be cookie monster), increase energy (bc i've got hammock-radar) and induce calm (cause being fat is angering.)

*enough makeup makeup to fuel at least a dozen photo shoots. why? oh come on, you've said it yourself so many times your tongue has got the vowel formation down pat: 'it's a shame she's fat, but she's got such a pretty face.' oh yeah. i'm playing up that face, suckers. because you know how it goes- a fat girls' gotta have perfect skin and a china doll cupie face to make up for all the smush on her elbows and tummy. l'oreal says: kaching!

*shoes. you know this one too. we can't wear the cute clothes, but by goshdammit, we can wear the shoes! theory anyway. my feet are skinny for a fat girl, but they're also size 11. note to nature: i hate you, you insufferable bitch. the only part of me that's skinny is STILL hard to fit. go choke on an iceburg.

*on a related note, amongst the shoes (heels, flats, cute sneakers in every color, you name it, fat girl has tried it on), there are several near-new pairs of athletic shoes. why? because a fat girl figures if she buys the equipment to get her fat ass to hit the pavement, she might do it. never works though. not when it's rainy, or too hot, or too cold, or there was a project runway marathon on tv or someone made cookies or you just don't feel like it or it's election day or the latest trashy celebrity gossip is too good to ignore or your tweaked your ankle or you feel somewhat fevery, like fuck off that the regular body temp is 98.point.something degrees, you feel icky dammit, or, you know, whatever. these things happen. hence why running in the new shoes doesn't. but every season the cycle starts anew anyway.

*diet books. i know. seriously. it's not like i've read any of them- i mean even as a fat fuckass i know that the secret to losing weight is a two-fold, four-word anthem: eat less, exercise more. but people seem to feel they are helping when they dump the atkins books, 'deceptively delicious and healthy!' tomes, weight watchers pamphlets and autobiographies of self-affirmation amidst the fat written by women who are plump but, thank you, aren't carrying the emotional baggage yours truly is hauling, into my lap and bookshelf. fuck off, all of you. and bring me a popsicle.

*three scales. yeah. for real. it's like i think if i buy a new one it'll give me a different measurement. and it does. it's usually heavier. bastards. i hate you and your digitalized fat-measuring capabilities, sitting so idly on my bathroom floor, reminding me that i'm fat every time i go pee. i've not got the patience, and yet i'm pretty sure i'll be buying a new scale within the year, cause that's just the way i roll.

*a collection of 'when i'm skinny again' clothes. every girl has one of these. you know how fat a girl is based on the ever-expanding grandiose quality of the 'someday when i lose weight!' section of her closet. if it contains a few shirts, she's on slimfast. if it's got some pants thrown in the mix too, she might be doing weight watchers. if she's got jackets, dresses, shirts, t-shirts, sweaters, skirts, long-sleeve concert t-shirts, the 'ironic' t-shirt that she unwittingly made in sixth grade that would be hilarious to pair with jeans and a newsboy cap in one of those artsy 'look at meeeee' sort of ways that the pixie girls of soho carry off without a hitch, shoes, and hell even bras, then you know you're in fatty mcfatterson who hates her fat guts territory. proceed with caution. arm thyself with cheetos. they will soothe her should you chance upon meeting her, and they also might serve as cushion if she kicks your ass to the curb for invading her space.

*pictures of me between sizes 14 and 20-whatever-i-am-now as inspiration to not stuff when there's cheesecake within a 20-mile radius. one of my best friends saw one of these photos and, i'm not kidding, asked 'who's that?' and later we went to cheesecake factory. he paid.

and those are that for now. i'm sure there's more, but quite honestly i'd rather not hash them out now. i've got to go fold my size-26 laundry and then hit up the cvs for decongestants and cadbury eggs. i know. it's only the fat girls who can go to a drug store and totally load up on unhealthy shit. it's a talent, my friends. it takes lipids to accomplish. don't feel intimidated.

fats mcgee

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